


Hell of Heaven: A Sequel to Damned

by lyndysambora



Series: Absolution [3]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyndysambora/pseuds/lyndysambora
Summary: The invitation was always there to switch roles, whenever Richie wanted to, but if Richie ever wanted to, it was always a passing whim, not even worth mentioning, because he knew by the time he bothered to mention it, it would be gone. And it always was.Except today. Today it wasn't fucking going away.
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Series: Absolution [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1475885
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Bits of het in this one with OCs. Probably not worth mentioning, but if it happens to annoy you, then you've been warned.

_Jealousy is the dragon in paradise; the hell of heaven; and the most bitter of the emotions because associated with the sweetest.-- A.R. Orage_

Jon tapped a piece of a melody out on the keyboard David took with him everywhere, his head slightly tilted to present his left ear to the sound he was making. He dropped down an octave and tapped out the same bit of melody, turning his head just a bit more, as though his left ear was responsible for all good decision-making where music was concerned. He had once opined to Richie that this was because the right side of the brain controlled the left side of the body and, therefore, his left ear was the more artistic of the two. Richie thought he was full of shit, and told him so, but it didn't stop him from thinking the habit was cute. 

Stretching up to where a notebook and pen laid on the flattest area on the top of the keyboard, Jon made a few notes and a few strike-outs, before putting the pen behind his ear and turning his attention back to the keys. 

On the other side of the room, Tico and Alec watched a baseball game on the huge television set in the corner and suffered from the occasional outburst of raucous cheering. David was on that side of the room, too, but he had his Walkman headphones on and was intent on a notebook of his own. Richie didn't know whether he was writing songs or just doodling to music. 

Richie wasn't sure why they always ended up in David's hotel room to hang out and work on music (maybe it was due to the ubiquitous keyboards), but it had just become standard procedure for them, when they weren't all out trolling for tail, at least. 

It had been a long time since either Richie or Jon had joined the other band members in their quest for strange women to fuck. So far, their mission to stay monogamous had gone off without a hitch. Two months and counting. 

In that time, their intimate life had fallen into a mostly-unspoken groove, with Jon taking the role of sexual subservience. It was comfortable for them both, and pretty fantastic in a lot of different ways. The invitation was always there to switch roles, whenever Richie wanted to, but if Richie ever wanted to, it was always a passing whim, not even worth mentioning, because he knew by the time he bothered to mention it, it would be gone. And it always was.

Except today. Today it wasn't fucking going away. 

Jon must have decided on the lower octave because he was picking out the melody again, in the lower position, and finding chords to accompany it. Again, he stopped and scribbled on the paper, one side of his lower lip drawn up, bitten in concentration. 

Richie watched him from the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. So far, Jon hadn't looked up, hadn't noticed him at all. In a way, Richie was hoping to get a hold on himself enough to walk away before he opened himself up in that way. In another way, he desperately wanted Jon to look up and read his mind.

His feet resisted and he dragged them, unwilling, into the room. He was standing almost right next to Jon before he was noticed. 

“Hey,” Jon said. “Where have you been?"

Richie cleared his throat, then spoke in a voice low enough that only Jon could hear it. “I need you,” he said.

Jon's expression remained unchanged. “What's up?" he asked, putting his pen down.

Shifting to the other foot and giving Jon what he thought was a meaningful look, Richie said, “I need you."

If he hadn't been so damn freaked out, Richie would have laughed at the look on Jon's face when he finally understood. His eyes widened and he looked back and forth from Richie to his paper, as though trying to figure out what to do next. “Oh! I, um-- okay... Just let me--" he stammered. He stood up too quickly, knocking into the keyboard with his thigh. He barely caught it before it toppled onto the floor from its foldaway perch. Holding a steadying hand on top of the instrument, Jon took a deep breath and said, “Go wait for me in my room. I'll be there in a minute."

“Okay,” Richie said, and hurried from the room while his legs would still support him.

\---------------------------------------

Slipping into Jon's suite, Richie made it as far as the middle of the bedroom floor and stopped. It occurred to him he had no idea what to do next. He thought about getting undressed, maybe even climbing into bed to wait. There had been a few times that Jon had done just that, stretched across the bed and waited, his body situated just right, his eyelids lowered, his lips parted just perfectly to make Richie want to tear him to pieces. Richie loved when Jon did that, but that was Jon.

The thought of Richie, himself, doing it, made him feel ridiculous. So he just stood there in the middle of the room, back to the door, for what felt like hours, his palms slicked with sweat. 

The click of the suite door opening made him spin around. The bedroom door was open, but the angle prevented Richie from seeing Jon until he appeared in the opening. He stood there, hands flat against the door frame on each side, half-smiling, his eyes sliding up and down Richie's body. Richie's fingers curled into his wet palms. 

Jon pushed off the door frame and entered the room, swinging the door shut behind him. Richie jumped at the sound of it shutting. 

“Are you nervous?" Jon asked. 

“No,” Richie said. Then, a moment later, “Yes."

Jon crossed the room, his confident swagger a 180-degree turn from the nervous guy who had almost leveled the keyboard. Apparently, the intervening minutes had been enough to calm him down, while Richie had only managed to sweat more. 

Stepping up close, Jon wrapped a hand around Richie's waist, the other on the back of the man's head, and yanked him in for a kiss so urgent it almost buckled Richie's knees. His mouth melted under Jon's and he offered no resistance when Jon pulled him around and pushed him against the wall. Richie spread his legs a little to allow Jon's body in as close as possible. 

But just as he did so, Jon grasped him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the wall. He pressed his body against Richie's, pinning him there, rubbing the hardened knob of his excitement against Richie's ass. Richie pushed his ass back instinctively, and Jon ran his tongue over the side of his neck. 

“Oh, so it's like that, huh?" he cooed. 

Richie swallowed. 

Jon ran his hands up Richie's sides, along the backs of his arms, spreading his arms up and out against the wall in a stance as though he intended to frisk the other man. “What do you need?” he breathed. “Do you need my fingers? Or my tongue?” His lips brushed so close to Richie's ear that Richie could feel the breath on his skin. “Or do you need more than that this time?"

Richie allowed his head to tilt, giving Jon the full stretch of his neck to taste. “I don't know,” he rasped. “Anything. Everything."

“You got it, baby," Jon whispered, in between kisses. “You got it." Then he slid his hands down to Richie's hips and turned him around, leaning into a kiss on the mouth so slow and deep Richie moaned softly into it. 

When Jon broke away, he slipped his hands into Richie's and tugged, walking backwards, leading the other man toward the bed. Richie stumbled over his own feet at first, his legs already weak with what he told himself was purely arousal and had nothing to do with anxiety. 

Jon urged him to sit on the edge of the bed, then spread his knees open and knelt between them. He slid his hands up under Richie's shirt, pushing it up, before pulling him close enough to capture a nipple in his mouth. Richie leaned into the contact, grasping the back of Jon's head, burying his face in the man's hair. 

Planting random kisses over Richie's chest and stomach, Jon murmured, “I was afraid you'd never let me again... I thought you didn't like it..."

He caught Richie's other nipple in his mouth and sucked it softly, the tip of his tongue fluttering over it, and Richie squeezed his eyes shut. That day he'd let Jon put his fingers inside him-- that day he'd let Jon taste him in that impossibly intimate way-- was the first and last time he'd opened himself up like that. Jon had teased him on occasion, and sometimes reminded him that he had a standing invitation to it, but otherwise left him alone about the subject. Richie was beyond grateful for this; the truth was, he _had_ liked it, more than he could bring himself to admit.

Since then, he'd had his own fingers and dick and tongue inside Jon on countless occasions. But most of the time he considered reciprocation something that _might_ happen some time off in the future. So when he'd woken up that morning with the aftertaste of a wet dream haunting his brain and the mental image of being fucked by his best friend again, he'd written it off as one of those envelope-pushing fantasies that only occurred when he was already horny and would go away as soon as he wasn't horny anymore.

But he'd already jerked off twice that day and still wanted Jon's cock inside him. Maybe even more so. They hadn't done _that_ since that time they'd been high on X, and, unlike the fingers and the tongue, that was something Richie thought he would probably never want to try again.

Funny, that.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie just stared at him, unsure what was going on. 
> 
> “Show me you want it," Jon said, and suddenly Richie knew exactly what was going on.

Jon peeled Richie's shirt all the way off, then set to work on his shoes and socks, and Richie laid back on the bed, trying not to squirm with impatience. When Jon finally made it to his pants and stripped them off, Richie actually moaned with relief. 

Pushing Richie's knees up, Jon clamped his mouth against the the tender spot between the back of Richie's thigh and the bottom of his ass cheek. Richie jumped at the unexpected assault and Jon pulled away. 

“You okay?"

“Yeah," Richie gasped, dropping his head back as Jon dipped his face again. He wanted it-- oh god, he wanted it-- but he could feel the anxiety creeping back in, and when he felt Jon's tongue slide over him, his entire body tensed. Jon's hands on the back of his thighs detected the change in body language right away. 

“Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked softly, and Richie almost snapped at him in frustration, but bit his tongue just in time. Jon let his legs down easily, then stood up and began undressing himself. Richie scooted himself up onto the bed and watched him, wondering what was going to happen. 

Jon stripped down most of the way, but left his underwear on, and climbed into bed. Lying on his back, he gathered a couple pillows under his head so it was elevated, and held out his arms. “Come on," he said. 

Richie just stared at him, unsure what was going on. 

“Show me you want it," Jon said, and suddenly Richie knew exactly what was going on. He shook his head, his face on fire. 

“Oh no... no no no--"

“Why not?"

“Because... no."

“You've done it to me like this."

“That's me doing it to you."

“Why is there always a double standard there?"

Richie hugged his knees up to his chest but didn't answer. 

Jon sat up and folded his legs up. “Do you want it?"

Richie hesitated, and Jon went on, “I'm not asking you if you think _I_ want to give it, or if you think you deserve it, or if you think your ass is pretty enough to be in my face-- I just want to know if you _want_ it."

He reached out and touched Richie's hand. “Did it feel good to you? When I did it before?"

Staring down at their connected hands, Richie whispered hoarsely, “Yeah."

“Then what are you afraid of? You think I didn't like doing it, or something?"

Richie shrugged, and continued staring at their hands. Jon leaned forward. “I loved every delicious moment of you..."

A shiver passed through Richie's entire body, and Jon let go of his hand, lying back into the pillows again. Again, he held out his arms. “C'mere and give me what you've got. You've made me wait long enough, you fucking tease."

Despite himself, Richie chuckled. He ran a hand through his hair, still unable to look up at Jon. “I just don't understand--"

“Shut up and get your ass over here."

Every muscle in his body trembling, Richie crawled over to Jon and straddled his torso backwards. Before he could make another move, Jon put a hand in the middle of his back and pushed him down to all fours. Richie focused on the sight of Jon's knees to calm the pounding in his chest, as Jon stroked his hips and legs, but didn't pull back on them as Richie anticipated. Instead, he purred, “You're still not close enough..."

“You're gonna make me--”

“Yep. I want you to come and get it."

Richie looked back over his shoulder, trying to gage the distance between them. “I don't know how far away I am,” he said, hearing the exasperation in his own voice. “I don't know where you are, I don't know how far to go..."

Jon grazed his fingertips over Richie's ass cheeks, down the backs of his thighs, his movements as relaxed as Richie's were anxious. “You've gone far enough when you feel my tongue."

Dropping his head between his arms, Richie tried to calm his breathing. Then he took a deep inhale and moved slowly back toward Jon, just an inch or two. 

“That's it, baby," Jon murmured. “Come to daddy, don't be afraid..."

“How far away are you?"

“Not far. Don't be afraid."

Letting out his held breath in a rush, Richie pushed himself back until he felt Jon's face, and Jon clutched his hips hard and buried his tongue so deeply against him that Richie's eyes rolled back for a moment before he regained control of his faculties. 

“Oh-- _Jesus,"_ he gasped, trying hard not to force himself back on his friend, as the sensation sent the blood rushing back to his cock, and diffused down his quivering thighs. His elbows trembled beneath him, threatening to let him collapse. “Jonny--"

Jon bit the inside of one of Richie's ass cheeks, drawing a soft yelp of surprise from the other man. Then he drew his hands inward, pushing the cheeks together, before running the tip of his tongue delicately up the length of the crease. “You were saying?” he asked. 

Richie hung his head between his arms again, trying to maintain composure, but his efforts were negated by the feel of one of Jon's hands snaking slowly, deliberately up between his thighs. Richie instinctively opened his legs a little wider to grant him access, encouraging his exploration, and was rewarded with the feel of Jon's fingers on his cock, alternately squeezing and pulling, using it to drag him back toward his friend's face, where that moist, hot tongue was waiting to devour him again. 

Richie lowered himself to his elbows and groaned at the feel of his cock trapped and rubbing between their torsos, and the sight of Jon's erection straining against the thin barrier of his underwear. He reached up and closed his hand over the bulge, but Jon drew his knees up protectively. “No," he said. “Not yet, okay?"

“Okay," Richie choked, laying his head against the inside of Jon's thigh and closing his eyes. Jon drew his hand back out to its post on Richie's hip, and resumed his oral exploration. Ripples of tingling warmth stole down Richie's legs and up into his middle, radiating out in all directions from his dick, squeezed and rocking between their bodies like that, and for a wild moment he thought he would come like this, without Jon even touching him there and even though every instinct he had was barreling him toward that goal, he couldn't bring himself to let it happen like that.

So with elbows on the verge of buckling, he drew himself up off his hands, until he sat upright, his body rippling under the ministrations of Jon's eager mouth. He grasped the tops of his own thighs, trying to find something to hang onto, some way of grounding himself so he didn't go crazy. He expected Jon to stop anytime, move onto something else, but the other man continued to ravish the little hole with such fervid attention that Richie moaned much more loudly than he'd intended to. He rocked his hips back and forth slightly, gasping at the way the tiny movement rubbed him against Jon's tongue, and the way Jon's licking and sucking only seemed to increase in enthusiasm the more Richie let go. 

So Richie allowed himself to move against the other man, groaning at the new sensations and at the high of shedding inhibition, if only for a few moments. He slid his hands up and over his stomach, over his chest, tickling over his nipples in rhythm with Jon's licking, pulling another moan from himself that caused Jon to moan in response. Finally, Richie doubled over, back onto all fours and tried to pull away from the other man's face. 

“Jonny, I--"

“No no no no no," Jon begged softly. “Don't make me stop--"

“Can we do this some other way, then?" Richie whimpered. “I feel like I'm gonna lose my mind--"

Without warning, Jon shoved him forward, pulling his own body out from underneath him. Then he pushed Richie's head and shoulders down toward the bed, nudging his knees apart. 

“Spread your legs," he panted. “Show me everything."

Richie complied, almost before he knew what he was doing, and then shuddered at the feel of Jon's fingers sliding over him, pressing against him, but not into him yet. 

“Don't ever make me wait that long again, okay?” Jon said. 

“Okay," Richie said, then choked on an inhale when Jon's mouth found him again, nipping, sucking at the soaked skin, before thrusting his tongue inside. 

Richie pushed himself back against the assault, both feeling and hearing Jon's grunts of frustration at only being able to get so deep. Richie felt his friend's finger slide into him, then a second, as he continued to tongue the surrounding edges for a moment before plunging his fingers in and out of Richie almost frantically. 

“Oh god... Jonny--" Richie gasped, pushing himself against Jon's attacking fingers. He felt himself being opened up, as Jon spread his fingers out, working them this way and that, sliding over that spot inside him, making his toes curl...

But Jon suddenly pulled out and said, “Flip over."

Overcome by the loss of Jon's fingers, Richie repositioned himself onto his back immediately, pulling his knees up to ready himself, exposing everything again, and Jon had his fingers back inside him almost before he could think.

“Oh my god, you don't know how beautiful you are," Jon moaned quietly. “You have no idea how much I want you-- I want to taste and touch everything-- You have no idea--"

Richie squeezed his eyes shut to hide from the adoration that Jon seemed unable to control. 

“I've wanted back inside you for so long... I kept dreaming of making you come like that again, the way your face looked, oh my god... the way you moved..."

“Jonny--"

“I want you again, I want all of you again," Jon said, before pulling out and lunging for his overnight bag. Richie bit his lip and watched Jon withdraw condoms and lube, then pounce back onto the bed so hard it bounced for a few moments before becoming still. Despite his nerves, Richie grinned at the way Jon's smooth and in-control demeanor had yielded to his enthusiasm. It flashed through his mind that maybe Jon's effortless transition into the dominant role had been just as much an act as Richie's had been the first time. 

“What?" Jon asked.

“What?"

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing."

Jon rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the box of condoms still in his hand. His expression became suddenly serious and he looked up. “You sure you wanna do this?" 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you sure you wanna go through with this?"

“I was the one who came to you, remember?"

“I know," Jon said, returning his gaze to the stuff in his hands. “I just want you to be sure."

A wisp of relief passed through Richie, which he ignored. He was sure-- absolutely sure-- that now was the time. So any bit of reluctance had to just be nerves... waiting longer wouldn't do away with every bit of his anxiety, he knew. The only way to be completely relaxed was to have a little experience with it. Well, some experience kinder than what he'd had before...

“Rich?"

“I'm sure."

Jon looked like he wanted to say something else, but ended up just nodding, then setting to work on suiting up in rubber. Richie watched him work, feeling like he should be doing something, but unsure what that was. Jon was completely capable of donning his own condoms and lube, but Richie still felt he should have been more in charge somehow. 

Completing the task, Jon crawled up between Richie's legs and carefully pushed his friend's knees up, propping Richie's calves on his shoulders. “Is this okay?" he asked. 

“Yeah,” Richie said, his fingers twisting vaguely into a fold of blanket. 

He closed his eyes as he felt Jon's fingers slide into him again, loosening him up, preparing him for the inevitable, for what he'd been desperate to experience again. But when he felt the slightly cooler touch of the latex against him, he suddenly knew, just as certainly as he'd known he had to have this, as certainly as he'd known that he would _die_ without it, that he couldn't do it. Not yet. Not in real life. 

“Jonny--"

“Okay." 

Richie didn't know if the other man had read his expression, or his tone or something else, but Jon had understood, nonetheless. His voice was soft and understanding when he said, “Can I still use my fingers?"

Richie nodded and opened his eyes. Jon's gaze was diverted down to what he was doing, his cheeks washed a watercolor red that could have easily been simple arousal, but that Richie read as embarrassment. 

Closing his eyes again, Richie felt the wetness of his friend's ridiculously talented mouth on his dick, the touch of those amazing fingers buried deep inside him, and tried not to think of anything but the physical sensations coursing through him. It only took a minute or so before he climaxed hard into the other man's mouth. 

“Are you okay?" Jon asked. 

“I'm sorry."

“What for?"

Richie didn't answer. Jon placed a kiss on the inside of his thigh, then laid his head against the spot and sighed.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don't want to, it's all right. I mean, I can just tell them I made a mistake."
> 
> It was supposed to be accommodating, but there was an edge of a challenge to it that Jon didn't think was just his imagination.

Richie stared at the half-moon shadows below his eyes and felt his stomach clench down into a bitter fist. After his freakout the night before, he hadn't even had the temerity to return the favor; instead, he'd uttered some stupid excuse about needing to go, and he'd retreated to his own suite, where sleep eluded him for most of the night. Some time around 5 am (he knew the time because he'd checked the clock compulsively for hours) he'd managed to doze into a fitful imitation of sleep that had lasted all of an hour before he was wide awake again, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Jon had been able to sleep. 

Finally, around 6:30, Richie had abandoned the idea of sleep and got in the shower. Now, as he stared at his reflection, his hair hanging wet and lank over his skull and looking just as tired as its owner felt, Richie wondered if he was cut out for this thing he and Jon were trying to foster. Two months of overlooking the obvious problem of being straight men in a gay relationship. Two months of commiserating about the lack of pussy in their lives. Two months of ignoring the way their conversations about it had steadily gotten more frustrated in tone. 

When it got too bad, Richie could fuck Jon and imagine a woman in his place. Jon was not only aware of this, but did it himself sometimes, imagined a woman in Richie's place during blowjobs. It seemed to them a likely concession, and neither was offended by the idea. It was what it was. 

Except after last night, Richie realized that the odd arrangement had severe limitations-- he simply could not give Jon everything he needed. Not sober, anyway. He had offered a few times to get smashed to allow consummation of it, but Jon had refused. Richie had pointed out to him that he'd be agreeing to it while sober, therefore it was no harm, no foul. But Jon still wasn't interested. 

_If and when I get to have you in that way, I want you to be there for it_

They had a show to do that night, and Richie knew he should probably blow-dry his hair to make things easier for later, but he just didn't give a shit. He turned and wandered out of the bathroom, not really sure what to do next, until he remembered the battered little notebook he kept in his luggage. He hadn't even opened it in almost 3 months, but he made sure he kept it on hand, just in case. 

Crossing the room, he tossed his carry-on bag up onto the bed, slumped down beside it, and started digging. Behind the wads of clothing and personal effects, was a flat zipper pocket cut into the lining of the bag. Richie unzipped it and extracted the book, spiral-bound and no bigger than a 3x5 card. The vinyl covers were bent and the front one was partially torn away from the binding. He flipped open the book and thumbed through the entries, organized not alphabetically by name, but alphabetically by city, state, province, country, wherever.

As it happened, there were more than a few entries for their current city, and two in particular that popped out at him. Two friends who had, during the last tour, given Richie and Jon a day and a half of complete, unadulterated orgiastic bliss. Two friends who had, upon departure, given phone numbers they could be reached at for whenever the boys found themselves back in the city. 

Richie wondered if they could still be reached at the same phone numbers. He wondered if it was too early to make the call. But he figured they were both most likely expecting it. Musicians kept strange hours, after all. 

He picked up the receiver and dialed. The woman's voice on the other end was unmistakable.

“Puddles," Richie said. The girl's name was Jill, but she was an eager sort, with a very responsive body, and Richie had christened her Puddles during their extended encounter. Something to remember him by, in case he ever called again.

_"Richie,"_ the girl purred. “Long time, no talk."

“You and Angie coming to the show tonight?"

\----------------------------------------

Jon flipped onto his side. Five seconds of violent wriggling later, he was on his other side, twisted into blankets that were too hot. He threw the covers off, flopped onto his back and attempted to burn a hole through the ceiling with the heat of his glare.

He had been exhausted when he laid down to sleep, and he was still exhausted, but he couldn't so much as doze off. Realistically, he knew he had to have slept at least a little during the night, but he couldn't remember it, and he sure as hell didn't feel like he'd gotten any rest. Now the sun was starting its slow creep through the window blinds because Jon had forgotten to pull the blackout curtains, and it was pissing him off. He needed some kind of restoration if he was going to give a decent show tonight, but it was almost impossible for him to sleep during the day. Even with the shades drawn, total darkness and total silence, it would be a bitch to even try to get a nap in later.   
The tape loop in Jon's brain continued without so much as a moment's reprieve, as it had for most of the night, berating him for not having seen it coming. It was true that Richie had initiated, but Jon should have known to take it slower, to seduce him a little, instead of just assuming the man was as ready as he thought he was. It still stung him that he'd hurt Richie the first time, even though Richie had begged for it then, begged to be hurt, even. They'd been high, but Jon had still known better. 

And now... now he didn't even have the excuse of being high. He'd simply let his hormones get the better of him, and now lord only knew if Richie would ever let him near him again in that capacity. Not that Jon would hold that against him-- he'd be satisfied with their relationship no matter what happened. But he so wanted to make things right, prove to Richie he could do this without losing his head, that it hurt just thinking about it. 

He swung his feet to the floor and rubbed at his forehead. From now on, he'd never mention it. He wouldn't make jokes about it and he wouldn't hint about it. He wouldn't do a single thing to influence Richie's decision. If it happened, it happened. If not, that was fine, too. But he needed to know that if Richie ever asked for it again, it was coming straight from his own desires, rather than any kind of subconscious response to what Jon wanted.

\----------------------------------------

“Where've you been?"

Jon glanced up from where he sat, pulling on his cowboy boots. Richie was standing over him, already fully dressed, hair and makeup done. His cheeks were flushed as though he was excited or nervous. Or both. 

“I've just been tired today. Been trying to relax."

“Oh," Richie said, the word inflected as though it should have been followed up with other words, but wasn't. Instead, it just hung out there, as vaguely anxious as Richie looked. 

“Sit down, man. You're making me nervous.”

Richie shifted to the other foot and for a moment, Jon thought he was going to skitter away. But he finally sat down. Then, after a couple minutes of silence and Jon pretending to preen and prepare to give himself something to do besides stare Richie down, Richie said, 

“Oh, by the way, guess who's gonna be here tonight."

“Who?"

“Puddles and PuddinPop.”

“No shit?" Jon said, grinning. He remembered the girls well, nicknamed for the things he and Richie knew they'd recall them best for. The one named Angie they'd called PuddinPop because the girl not only loved to give head, she went after it like it was a delicious treat to be savored with every taste bud in her whole mouth. 

“Yeah. I talked to Puddles this morning.”

“Well, damn. How are they doing?"

“Good. Good. Still roommates, still single."

“I'll be damned. They were fucking great, weren't they?"

“No kidding."

Jon chuckled and shook his head at the memory, turning toward the mirror to adjust his belt. “How'd she find you? I thought the hotel staff were under orders not to let anyone know we're here."

“I, um... I called her."

Jon's hands stiffened in mid-task, and he turned back around with what he knew was a painted-on smile. “You called her?"

“Yeah."

“What made you do that?"

Richie shifted from one ass cheek to the other, crossing his legs in what was clearly supposed to be a casual movement. “Well, you know... we've been talking about it and all. I just thought..."

Returning his attention to the mirror, Jon began to mess with his hair again. His hands shook. “Yeah, I guess we have been talking about it a lot," he said.

“I figured since we already know them and all..."

“Yeah."

“If you don't want to, it's all right. I mean, I can just tell them I made a mistake."

It was supposed to be accommodating, but there was an edge of a challenge to it that Jon didn't think was just his imagination. 

“No. No, it's fine. Maybe I'm just a little nervous. It's been awhile, you know?” he said.

“Yeah. I think we could both use it."

“Yeah."

“Well," Richie said, suddenly popping to his feet. “I got something I need to check on, so I'll catch you after the show, all right?"

“All right," Jon said, the answer barely escaping his lips before Richie was gone. Closing his eyes, Jon took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. The announcement of _Three minutes!_ caused his eyes to snap back open, and he nodded to acknowledge that he'd heard the warning. 

Then he continued to gratuitously mess with his hair, his now-steady hands the product of intense professional conditioning.

\----------------------------------------

It was Angie, the one they called PuddinPop, who, after popping her lips from the mouth of her beer bottle, casually tossed out the question of the century: “Why are you guys so nervous?" She pushed a mess of deep red spiral curls back from where they had spilled in front of her shoulder, and waited.

Jon took a pull from his own bottle of beer to buy some time, doing his best to give her a cool and measured look. Her long legs were crossed, the toe of her stiletto boot tapping the air in some rhythm known only to herself. Her natural double-D's threatened to spill out the top of a barely-there spandex top, exposing miles of creamy and lightly-freckled cleavage. The girl was a miracle of genetics, and that wasn't even counting the talents she possessed. 

“Not nervous. It's just been a tough week,” Richie piped up, then drank from his own bottle. Puddles glanced back and forth between them all, her dark eyes sliding side to side below dyed-black bangs. She smiled as though the whole thing was vaguely amusing to her. Jon didn't like the look of the smile, stretched across lips painted the color of bing cherries. Well, his _brain_ didn't like the look of that smile. His dick liked it just fine. 

“Oh, okay," PuddinPop said, and Jon thought he saw her eyes flick briefly toward her friend. 

When they'd met the girls, they'd all fucked first and asked questions later. This time, they'd had the girls brought to the hotel, and proceeded to shower and change clothes before finally sitting down for drinks and awkward conversation with them. It _was_ off, and Jon knew it, and he knew Richie knew it. 

Butterflies flitted mercilessly in his stomach as he searched for something, anything, to say. The memory of the girls had been gilded in his mind, like a trophy of sorts, and they _had_ been great, probably the best Jon or Richie had ever had. Ever since then, Jon had thought he'd give his left nut to repeat the experience. And now, here they were, halfway to drunk and all Jon could think of was

_are we supposed to do this in the same room?_

and about how, given the choice, he'd rather trade handjobs with Richie and fall asleep curled up next to his best friend. He was stricken through with a sudden shot of anger. At Richie for calling the girls in the first place, and at himself for apparently being the needier of the two in their fucked-up little relationship. 

“Well," PuddinPop announced, rising to her feet, “somebody's gotta get this thing started." She peeled the lime green spandex from her upper body and tossed it aside. Puddles grinned and took another drink. 

Jon opened his mouth to suggest they retreat to the bedroom, but the girl was already on top of him, straddling his lap, her full lips attacking his mouth, and Jon's hands were sliding up under her skirt before he knew what he was doing. Fuck it. If Richie wanted to do this, wanted to invite these intruders into their liaison, he was going to get one hell of a show.

\----------------------------------------

Richie stood beneath the full blast of the shower, letting his hair fall into a dripping curtain over his eyes and felt a bit of deja vu mix with the nausea.

The night before had turned into less than an hour of fun 

_fun?_

before the girls had decided to go home. Richie had wanted to retire to separate bedrooms for individual trysts, but then PuddinPop was on top of Jon and before Richie could force his jaws open enough to speak, she was on her knees in front of him, her own jaws full of Jon's cock. The whole time, Jon never allowed his eyes to slide even the tiniest fraction in his best friend's direction. 

Richie knew because he'd fucked Puddles doggy-style so that he could watch the other couple without her knowledge.

And holy _fuck_, were those really the faces Jon made when someone blew him? Did he make those faces when Richie blew him, too? Richie had tried, really tried, to focus on Puddles, but he couldn't make his eyes detach from the sight across the room. On one end, there was PuddinPop's ass, threaded with a g-string and showing beneath the hem of her miniskirt; in the middle, the sight of her lips bouncing over Jon's wet dick; and on the other end, Jon's head lolled against the back of the chair, his mouth open, his tongue curved and touching his upper lip, plowing Richie over with the memory of the night they'd been high on Extasy and Jon had fucked him in the ass--

It was over. He'd been in Puddles for less than a minute, and Jon's tongue had done him in. Silently thanking the condom for disguising the mishap from his partner, Richie had flipped the girl over, buried his face between her legs, and hoped like hell Jon would be distracted enough by her moans and squeals to finally notice what his own fucking lover was up to.

\----------------------------------------

Jon laid flat on his front, the side of his face swallowed up into the pillow, his free eye trained on the alarm clock that he'd turned around so as to be visible from his prone state. It was too early for him to be awake, not just because of how late he'd gotten to bed, but because of how much of the ensuing time had been spent staring at the ceiling, the wall, or the insides of his eyelids.

He doubted Richie was awake already. Not that it mattered. Who cared?

Jon hadn't known what to do. PuddinPop was on top of him in a flash, and fuck, he didn't _want_ to stop her. Well, not really. 

And it wasn't like Richie gave a shit. He was the one who called them, not Jon. And Jon had made damn sure to enjoy his time with the girls as much as was humanly possible. And to make sure that _Richie_ knew he was enjoying himself as much as humanly possible. That meant refusing to look in Richie's direction.

But the enthusiastic noises the other girl made had distracted Jon enough to glance over and see what was happening. Richie's face was between her legs, his knees drawn up under him enough for Jon to see that he was wearing a condom, though who knew if it had already been put to use or not?

And who fucking cared? Richie's body had been stretched out, catlike, his elbows planted in the mattress, his knees beneath him, propping his ass in the air. An image flashed across Jon's mind, one of Richie's face being in a pillow instead of someone else's crotch, and Jon easing up behind him, running his fingers over the tensed muscles of his friend's back and thighs, whispering soothing words of compassion, letting him know that he would be as patient as necessary--

It was over. He'd hissed a couple random, half-formed swear words as he came in PuddinPop's mouth sooner than he'd wanted to, and she emerged from below, wiping her mouth and grinning. And though Jon had wanted nothing more than to call it a night, he knew he'd have to reciprocate in some way, and he'd settled on fucking her senseless while he still had his hard-on. Turning her around, he took her doggy-style so she'd never know his eyes weren't on her while he did it. 

Groaning, Jon turned his face away from the direction of the clock. His head weighed a hundred pounds, his neck sore with the effort of holding it up. His first thought was stress, but then he decided he must have just slept on it wrong. That idea was much better. 

Maybe Jon would suggest the choice of ladies next time, he thought, and then wondered for the hundredth time if Richie was awake yet. Not that it mattered. Fuck him.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gazed off into the distance for several moments, adrift in his own thoughts. Finally, he said, “I got an idea. You game?”

Richie glared at his reflection in the mirror, while a girl named Cindy grasped hunks of his hair and ratted them painfully. His eyes flickered toward the adjacent mirror where Jon's reflection was having its eye makeup applied by a girl named Stevie, who looked like she wanted to eat Jon's face.

“I take it you forgot how to do that yourself?" Richie said, and received a sudden yank on his bangs that he was tempted to think was purposeful. Cindy was a lesbian and unmoved by the kind of idolatry that was making Stevie's job particularly hard at that moment. 

“Well," Jon said, flashing a grin at the girl, “I guess it's just one of the perks of _singing_ in a band, right?"

Richie snorted and smiled himself. “Well, _singing_ only gets you so far, you know."

“How's that?"

“Well, the singer gets all the attention onstage, but what good does it do you after the show?"

Jon closed his eyes as the makeup girl dusted his forehead with powder. “What do you mean?"

“You know, it's just that singing doesn't do much for a girl when she's naked."

“And what you do does?"

“Man, you know my fingers can go forever."

Stevie's gaze shifted over to Richie for a moment, appraising him anew, until Jon cleared his throat and she returned to her task. Richie gave her a sly little smile and hoped the implication that Jon would know _firsthand_ what Richie was capable of would go unnoticed.

Or hell, maybe he _didn’t_ hope it would go unnoticed.

“Well, you know, what I find funny is--" Jon started, his tone dripping with a bitterness Richie rarely heard from him, but he was cut short by David's sudden appearance behind them. 

“What am I missing here?"

Cindy yanked on Richie's hair again, and Richie swatted at her hands this time. “Catfight," Cindy said, and Richie grabbed the comb out of her hand.

“Fuck. You.”

Cindy grinned and snatched the comb back from him. 

Jon rolled his eyes and ripped the paper bib off himself as he stood and walked away. 

“Can I do my job now that he’s gone? Or should I give you a moment?" Cindy asked. 

“You could give my head a moment to stop bleeding," Richie said.

“Your head ain't bleeding, you baby," Cindy returned. She put the comb back in his hand and strolled away. _"Yet..."_

Richie looked at David in the mirror. “Why the fuck do we keep her around?"

Stevie, who had looked slightly lost since Jon's departure, took the opportunity to make her exit as well, watching Richie with moony eyes until she was out of the room.

“Because she's good."

Richie scoffed. “She ain't _that_ good."

“What happened?" Dave asked, picking up a mega-size can of hairspray and giving his already crisp hair another shot.

“With what?"

“Come on. You guys are embarrassing yourselves. And I'm not sure you care about this, but people are starting to talk a little bit."

“What people?"

“Just people."

“What do you mean 'talk'?"

“Well, at best, people think you're fighting over a chick. And that would be really fucking stupid for people to think you guys would be at each other about a piece of ass. At worst, well..."

“You're fucking kidding me, right?"

“Nope. So if you guys don't want the whole fucking world to know, you better straighten up."

Richie's shoulders drooped. “God, I _so_ don't fucking need this."

“What happened? Was it something to do with the girls?"

Head snapping up, Richie said, “He told you about that?"

“No, I ran into them leaving your room."

“I invited them. I told him I thought it would be fun, but-- I don't know. It doesn't matter, I guess," Richie said, then straightened his spine and took the hairspray from David's hand. “Fuck it, it's done, right?" He sprayed his hair and separated it a bit, finishing up what Cindy hadn't gotten done. 

“If it was done, you guys wouldn't be into it in front of everyone."

A hundred irate responses collided in Richie's throat, but he kept his mouth shut as he tossed the aerosol can on the counter and stood to leave.

\------------------------------------------

“I got a little surprise for you, man," Jon said, his pulse pounding in his ears loud enough to drown out the residual ringing from the show.

Richie eyed him warily and, Jon thought, with what appeared to be exhaustion. “What is it?"

“Check this out," Jon said, making a concerted effort not to let his hand shake as he put the key into the lock of the suite door. Swinging it open, he could almost feel the tension in Richie's body release a tiny bit upon seeing the empty living room of the suite. For a moment, he considered turning back, telling Richie he made a mistake, his “surprise" obviously hadn't arrived yet, and make up something later. But after another moment, he realized he was simply projecting his wishes onto the other man, that the exhaustion he felt emanating from Richie was either from the show or merely a figment of Jon's imagination. 

He led the other man through the suite to the bedroom, where he opened the door onto three blondes sprawled naked across the king-size bed. 

Richie froze. The muscles in his jaw tensed as he stared at the girls, who were giggling and gesturing for the men to come over.

“Well?” Jon said. “Whatta ya think? Nice, huh?”

He watched as his friend’s lips attempted to form a word twice, three times, before any sound came out. “Why?” Richie finally said.

“You got me a present,” Jon said, feeling a heat in his face that he wasn’t sure was anger or shame-- or both. “I can’t do the same for you?”

Richie backed up a step, toward the door, and shook his head. “I can’t do it, Jonny,” he whispered. 

“Are you kidding me?”

Richie shook his head again, then turned and left. Jon gave what he hoped was a winning smile and a “just one second” finger to the girls on the bed, then chased Richie down, managing to grab him by the arm just before he got out the front door of the suite. 

“I can’t _do_ it, Jonny,” Richie said, again. “What do you want me to say? It’ll kill me, all right? It’ll fucking kill me.” He shook his arm loose from Jon’s grasp. “You go ahead if you want. But I can’t.”

With that, he left, and Jon slugged the door as it clicked shut behind him.

\----------------------------------------

Richie raised his fist toward the door of Jon’s suite, but it wilted to his side before he could deliver the knock. Every muscle in his body felt asphyxiated, and he wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, or the tangle of self-loathing in his chest strangling his lungs. Part of him hoped Jon would just go ahead and hate him, because it would make things easier; the rest of him knew he would die if Jon’s feelings had changed even a little bit. He raised his fist again, and this time he managed to actually make contact with the wood.

It felt like hours of waiting, and he would have turned and left if he thought his knees would support him on the return journey to his own suite. When Jon opened the door, he said nothing.

Richie said, “I wanna talk, but I can’t.”

It sounded ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. 

To his shock, Jon smiled. “You need me to call Benny?”

The tangle in Richie’s chest released just enough to allow for a sharp inhale and then something that was between laughing and crying. “Fuck no, I hate that fucking guy.”

Jon stepped back and waved him into the room. As soon as they were safely behind the door, he tugged his friend’s head into his shoulder, and the misery of the past week lurched from Richie in sobs. 

“Start talking,” Jon said, wrapping his free arm around Richie’s back. 

“I fucking hate myself.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m ruining things. I’m ruining fucking everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“It _is_ true. And fucking PuddinPop and Puddles probably think we’re a coupla fucking weirdos now, too--”

“Now _that_ part is probably true.”

Richie laughed and then groaned, pulling his face away from Jon’s shoulder. “Can we sit down? I think my legs are gonna give out.”

Jon led him to the sofa with the arm that was still wrapped around his back. He sat down and motioned for Richie to lie down across his lap. Richie laid his head and shoulders across Jon’s thighs and closed his eyes against the dim hotel mood lighting that felt like noon time sun to him. Jon stroked gentle fingertips over his forehead. 

“Keep talking,” he said.

“I was so jealous of PuddinPop, I couldn’t hardly see straight. I just kept thinking... She can give you what you need, and there won’t be all this melodrama around it.”

Jon‘s fingers stilled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know what it means.”

“You wanna know how jealous I was of Puddles? I _still_ hate her fucking guts. She didn’t scare you like I do. That’s something I can never fucking undo and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Richie popped his head up. “That’s not what this is about.”

“How is it not what this is about?”

“It just... isn’t.”

Jon sighed and Richie allowed his head to drop again. 

“It’s not that I don’t want it.”

“I don’t care about it. You realize that, right? I don’t need it.”

Richie felt the weakness pass through his muscles again, and he was suddenly thankful to be lying down. “I do,” he said. 

Jon’s eyes scrunched closed, his lips tightening. “If it’s not about me hurting you, what is it about?” 

A dozen answers mixed in Richie’s mind, some more honest than others, a few too honest to bear. “It’s my job to take care of you,” he said. “I don’t know how to...”

It was all he knew to say. The answers fled, and left his mouth empty, the words hanging unfinished in the air. 

Jon opened his eyes. “You don’t know how to surrender to me?”

It was too simple. But after almost two months of soul-searching, it was the only answer Richie had come up with too. “I can’t get past it.”

Jon gazed off into the distance for several moments, adrift in his own thoughts. Finally, he said, “I got an idea. You game?” Then he smiled a smile that was halfway between comforting and playful, and Richie was instantly game.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How much do you want this?” Jon murmured into the space below Richie’s earlobe. Richie shivered.
> 
> “I’m here, ain’t I?”
> 
> “I don’t mean tonight,” Jon said, his hands moving to the fastenings of Richie’s pants. “I mean all of it. Me and you. All of it.”

Jon lit another cigarette off the butt of the one already in his fingers, and waited. He had told Richie to come back to his suite later in the evening, and he’d tried to make it sound as though there was a practical reason for it, that he had some “shit to take care of” with management in the interim, before he could relax. He knew Richie thought he was playing a game with him, being mysterious. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than explaining the truth: Richie had been in a bad headspace when they’d talked. Self-defeating and apologetic. Jon thought the day spent apart, and with the knowledge that things would be okay between them, would help his friend get his head on right. He told Richie not to drink before their encounter tonight, and he figured there was a 50/50 chance the other man would adhere to the request. Jon decided to acquiesce on that point, if it came to that. 

He sucked half the new cigarette down in one breath, its cherry drawing dangerously close to his knuckles. Holding it up by the filter, he inspected the crushed segment his nervous fingers had inflicted on it. Then he inhaled the rest of it in a second breath to destroy the evidence of his anxiety. Having a singer’s lungs came with some weird perks, he decided. Then he ground out the cigarette, blinking hard against the head rush. 

So it had nothing to do with fear of physical pain. It was worse than that. Richie had positioned himself as protector in their relationship, the emotionally dominant one. Jon considered himself one of the most independent people he knew, one of the toughest. 

_it’s my job to take care of you_

As soon as the words had left Richie’s mouth, Jon had had a mental picture of himself as a trapeze artist, chest puffed out, absorbing the adoration of a screaming crowd, imagining himself the bravest, most beautifully reckless man on earth, and forgetting that there was a safety net below him.

Richie was right. It _was_ his job to take care of Jon. And Jon wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d let it become that way. 

There was a knock on the door, and Jon stood up, rolled his head around. Bounced on the balls of his feet a few times. He knew if Richie could see him right now, he would accuse him of getting into character for him-- “Stage Jon” is what Richie called it-- but Jon figured it was a necessary concession. For now, at least. When he was in his honest form, Richie wanted to cater to him. It was up to Jon to help him rewrite that particular motif.

“Hey,” Richie said, when Jon opened the door, and Jon could tell right away that the other man was completely sober. His fingertips were doing that thing they unconsciously did when he was agitated, pressing invisible fret and picking patterns into his palms. Jon had pointed it out to him once, and Richie had laughed it off, completely convinced he had been merely stretching his fingers. Jon had never brought it up again.

“Hi,” Jon said, motioning him inside. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I know.”

“You want me to put on music?”

“No. Yes.”

“Will it help you relax? I got your Motown mixtape already in the recorder.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Richie said, following Jon into the bedroom. “Or six. And a couple quaaludes while we’re at it.”

“That’s my boy,” Jon said, chuckling, and pulled up the cassette player from where he’d left it on the floor by the bed the night before. “But you ain’t gonna need any ludes tonight, I promise.”

“Wait, you stole my Motown tape? I been looking for that.”

“Sorry. I learn shit from David Ruffin,” Jon said, pressing the Play button. The driving gospel-inspired soul of Martha Reeves issued from the box.

_sinking me deeper in love with you_

Jon slid a palm down Richie's forearm and circled his fingers around his wrist, pulled the man in against his own body. He breathed in the scent of his friend’s neck, just for a moment, the warm smell of the skin right before it prickled with sweat. Richie gave a small gasp, as though Jon’s inhale was a physical touch. A ghost of a thought brushed Jon’s mind that there would be no more groupies after this, no more casual sex of any kind. This was it. When (or if) there was anyone else, it would be for love and appearances and children, and it would do nothing to get in the way of what they had with each other. 

_it’s not safe loving you this way_

“How much do you want this?” Jon murmured into the space below Richie’s earlobe. Richie shivered.

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“I don’t mean tonight,” Jon said, his hands moving to the fastenings of Richie’s pants. “I mean all of it. Me and you. All of it.”

Richie’s head was down. Jon couldn’t tell if the man was watching his pants being breached, or if he was thinking. Doubt pulsed in Jon’s stomach to the beat of the music, as that ghost of a thought returned to him-- even if he hadn’t spoken it out loud, he’d already made a commitment to Richie in his head. And he wanted desperately to hold to it. Wanted Richie to return it.

When Richie looked up, he said, “More than life.”

_you’re like quicksand_

Jon laced his fingers with Richie’s, and brought their hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to the other man’s knuckles, before pulling him down onto the bed. 

“I been thinking... to really free your body, you gotta free your mind...”

“Sounds like a song,” Richie said, then groaned as Jon bit lightly at the curve of his neck. He was sweating finally. “So what’s this idea of yours?” he asked, breathless.

“Nothing fancy,” Jon said. “I just thought that if you didn’t know me, you wouldn’t need to take care of me.”

He skittered his fingertips up the inside of one of those long thighs he wished he had his tongue on, and rested his palm on the bulge at the joining of them. The man wasn’t stiff yet. Good. Jon wanted to hit the reset button hard tonight, and he knew if they moved too fast, the old habits would kick in. 

“How does that work?” Richie said. His fingers were curling slightly into the sheets. “Me not knowing you.”

“Easy,” Jon said, leaning away and pulling open the nightstand drawer. From it, he extracted a scarf, which he held up taut before Richie for scrutiny.

Richie laughed. “I don’t get it.”

“I want you to forget you ever looked in my eyes,” Jon said. “Just for awhile. I can’t see you, you can’t see into me.” Right before he tied the scarf around his eyes, he saw Richie’s smile drop.

“Why-- why would you want to do that--”

“I told you why.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Yes you can,” Jon said, feeling out the contours of the other man’s shoulders, and sliding his fingers up to the tense jaw, turning it in toward a kiss. “And it’s gonna be so good,” he whispered against Richie’s lips.

Richie touched his face in return. In the dark, Jon’s skin was galvanized to the feel of Richie’s fingertips, hardened off to the strings that so often abused them. The other man’s touch was tentative, as if he still didn’t understand the rules of what they were doing, as if he was under the impression there _were_ rules to it. 

“You okay?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know,” Richie said.

Jon leaned in a little more. When he felt the tickle of sweet-smelling hair against his cheek, he knew he was close to Richie’s ear. “What do you want? Do you know that much?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Richie was silent, except for a slight quickening of his breath.

“Tell the room, then. Tell the painting over there. Tell the floor.”

“I want to be able to _want_ things. Without feeling stupid about it,” Richie said. His voice was tight.

“Deeper.”

“I want to be able to let go.”

“And?”

The quickened breath shuddered out of Richie’s lungs. “I want to ride you,” he whispered. “I want to feel...”

He was silent again before he could finish the thought, and Jon knew the thought would never be finished. Not out loud, not in words. But Jon knew what he meant, all the same. 

“Then ride me. I’ll make you feel it.”

The hands that enclosed the back of Jon’s head and knotted into the hair at the base of his skull were no longer tentative. Jon parted his lips for the incoming kiss and returned the grasp, clutching Richie hard around the ribs, rubbing the stiff muscles of his middle back. Richie groaned into his mouth. 

“Jonny...”

“Get your pants off.”

Richie pulled away from him, and Jon felt the weight of him leave the bed for a few moments before shifting back in with what Jon thought might be some hesitation. He found his friend’s lips again for another cursory kiss before pulling off his own pants and crawling into position on the bed. 

“Come here.”

The mattress shifted a little next to Jon’s hip with what Jon assumed was the weight of Richie’s knee coming in close to him. A second later, he felt the squeeze of those delicious thighs on either side of him, and the touch of the lips again. Jon folded a hand over the back of the other man’s neck, holding him into the kiss. The other palm skimmed over his hip. 

When their mouths parted, Jon whispered, “I got no problem being in charge. Ever.”

A sound so small escaped Richie’s throat, Jon wasn’t sure he even heard it at all. 

“You ready to get started, baby?”

“I need to say something first.”

Jon didn’t respond, just smoothed the hair away from Richie’s face, down the back of his head and neck. Waited.

“I’m sorry about the girls. I need you to know how sorry I am about that. I was scared and I--”

“I know, and it’s okay.”

“I feel like a total shit. I fucked with us, and I fucked with them, too.”

“They had a good time,” Jon said. “And you know how they are. The fact it was weird probably made it better for them. They’ll have that in-joke til the day they die.” 

Richie chuckled, and Jon continued, “Why do you think _we_ liked them so much? They’re not the only great lays we’ve had.”

Richie sighed. “I want you all to myself, but I don’t want to be a selfish fuck. It’s tearing me up, man.”

“Me too.” Jon trailed his fingers over Richie’s lower back, made circles over his tailbone. “Maybe you should be on my cock while we figure it out.”

“_Fuck,”_ Richie growled, and flung himself sideways. Jon heard the unmistakable sounds of the nightstand drawer being rummaged through. “Here,” Richie said, taking Jon’s hand in his own shaking one, and poured what must have been half the bottle of lube into it. 

When Jon got his fingers inside the other man, he was more receptive than Jon had ever felt him. Very good.

“Ready?”

“Unh-huh.”

Jon rubbed his dick with the extra lube he had in his hand, then grasped it, allowing Richie to ease his way down onto it so slowly Jon thought his head would burst. He hoped like hell he was keeping his expression neutral-- without being able to read Richie’s face, Jon couldn’t tell if he was doing a good job keeping his own in check.

“Thatta boy,” he said, a little breathless for his taste, but not bad. Then Richie started squirming a bit, and Jon thought he would lose it. “You okay up there?”

“I don’t know what to do with my legs. I think they’re too long for this. Or I don’t know what I’m doing--”

“You’re doing fine. You wanna put a pillow under my ass?”

Jon sucked in a breath and held it as Richie jockeyed for position on his cock while, Jon imagined, he was reaching for a pillow. _Fuck_ he felt good...

“Here, lift up,” Richie said, and Jon as he was told, letting the other man shove the pillow under him. 

“Is that-- better--” Jon huffed, as Richie settled down onto him again. 

“Yeah...” Richie said, his voice trailing off as if there was an implied _but_ that he wasn’t speaking.

Jon reached out and found the man’s arms, followed them down to his wrists and pulled them forward. “Here,” he said. “Lay your hands on me.” He pressed Richie’s palms to his own chest and held them there. “Pull up a little until it feels good. Find the-- ah--” His instructions wavered as Richie complied. “_Fuck.”_

Richie started laughing. Which vibrated the inside of him in a way Jon was completely unaware existed until that moment.

“Stop it!”

“I’m sorry!” Still laughing.

Jon snagged Richie’s cock in his fist in one swipe, as though he could see what he was doing, and relished the gasp of surprise that brought the laughter to a halt. 

“Find it. Be a good boy.” He felt his friend’s fingernails dig into his chest. 

“Okay.”

And then he was sliding over Jon’s cock again, and this time Jon was certain he kept his expression neutral, willing down every screaming nerve ending inside him. He slipped his free hand over the flexing muscles in Richie’s thigh, tracked the tensing of it, both purposeful and accidental, and he knew the moment the man had hit a groove.

“Is it good for you right now?” Richie panted. “What I’m doing? Is it what you need, too?”

“Baby, everything you want is what I need... Let go for me. That’s what I need. I wanna possess your fucking soul tonight--”

He felt the shudder pass through Richie’s body before the man’s soft moan reached his ears. Jon stretched his hand out and found the side of his friend’s face with it. “Can you give me that?”

“Fuck-- _Jonny_...”

“Give me that.”

“_God_\-- ohh... okay--” 

He was starting to bounce now, and it took everything Jon had to let him do it without thrusting into him. Beautiful boy. He was just beginning to formulate a thought about being thankful he at least couldn’t see the other man at this moment, when he felt Richie’s fingers scrabbling at the scarf, trying to find the edge of it in the shock of hair it was now lost in. In one motion, the man yanked it free and flung it so hard, it hit the wall twenty feet away. Jon’s eyes watered at the sudden inpouring of light.

“I wanna see you,” Richie said, wriggling faster until he evoked an anguished moan from himself. 

“Good.” Jon wrapped his hands around Richie’s and held them to his chest again, hard. He blinked until he could see the way Richie’s eyelashes were catching the light, damp, and he wasn’t sure if it was sweat there, or tears. It didn’t matter anyway.

Richie’s elbows buckled, and he sank close to Jon’s chest, the shudders tearing through every inch of him as he came. Jon pulled him in tight.

“Well, whatta you know?” he murmured, stroking his friend’s back, and feeling the aftershocks gently dissipate into the ether of another hotel room they’d never set foot in again. “I think I figured some stuff out while you were on there.”

Richie slid his arms up under Jon‘s body and exhaled a breath he probably hadn‘t realized he was still holding. “Me too,” he said.

**END**


End file.
